I Know the Truth Now

On Wolves

Most fanfiction writers who favor Remus Lupin include mumbo-jumbo about packs and wolves without really explaining it to the rest of us. This is rather rude as not everyone in the world is a biologist who studies the movements of such noble creatures, or reads the works of such biologists. I want everyone who reads my fanfic to have a bit of a background on wolves, so here are some defining terms. If you've studied wolves, go on to Part One and wait for us there.

Alpha: Most people have heard of the alpha, a term given loosely to any dominating figure in a group structure. In a pack, there is commonly an Alpha Male and an Alpha Female. The alpha pairing will often be the only one in a pack allowed to have offspring, and if other pups join the pack or another female has a litter, these pups will either be killed or adopted by the alphas. Former Alpha pairings, those grown too old to continue their duties, and not those driven out by lower wolves, are often as elders and held in high esteem. Alpha pups are the treasure of a pack and guarded with the lives of all the wolves as a whole.

Beta: Groups of wolves directly under the one Alpha pair, often several single males or one or two Beta pairings, called the Beta Male and Beta Female. Sometimes the Beta Female will be allowed a litter, if the litter to the Alpha is small. These wolves, as a general rule, defend the Alphas and also look after the wolves under them, but can sometimes be overly-ambitious for the Alphas' role or pups, if they cannot have any of their own.

Omega: The lowest group of wolves, this group is often bullied and given the smallest share of food. They are almost always without mates and litters, and suffer abuse from the Betas, and strive to move upwards. Often old and infirm wolves or those driven from other packs are Omegas.

Part One

Never was and never will be

You don't know how you've betrayed me

And somehow you've got everybody fooled...

Without the mask,

Where will you hide?

Can't find yourself,

Lost in your lie...

The echoing of several boys' footsteps only slightly disturbed the huge, empty entry hall. Hogwarts, during the day, was normally a massive bubble of noise and activity, a sea of black robes as students swarmed to and fro between classes, filled with excited laughter and the babble of talk. But now, on a spring's blissful and cold midnight, it lay in a still silence--all except for the slight shade that moved along a wall. An occasional trainer peeked out in the moonlight, but otherwise, not even the sharpest eye could discern the three law-breakers that now made their way down the grand marble stairs. Across the moon-dappled hall and to the front door the ephemeral shadow passed, and out onto the gray-green lawns.

Just before a towering and oddly shaped willow tree, three figures appeared. There stood a group of boys in trainers and robes, two tall, and one short. The tall boys could have been brothers. One had black hair as untidy as if he'd just dismounted a particularly rowdy broomstick, cheery hazel eyes behind glasses, and a long nose; the other had pale eyes and dark hair that fell in them in a becoming, handsome fashion, who grinned constantly in a rather rakish way. The shortest of them, however, did not smile or look the remotest bit cheery--he shifted from one foot to the other, mousy brown hair tousled and his nose pointed like a rodent's. He wrung his hands, obviously afraid to be out so late and breaking rules.

"Maybe--maybe this isn't too safe... Maybe I should go back, he'll probably bite me..." pointy-nose, also called Peter Pettigrew, asked in a timid voice.

The bright-eyed boy with glasses smiled wider, and folded up the silvery cloak that had hidden them all the way down from their dormitory. "What, and miss out on adventure, Peter? Never knew you to be so strict on our safety--that's Moony's job. And he's in there, we've got to try this and keep him company, haven't we?" James asked, which was the boy's name.

A delighted grin flashed upon his handsome friend's face, named Sirius Black. "Relax. This'll be fun, mate." And in an inkling, Sirius had transformed into an immense, bear-like black dog, tossing a shaggy head towards the branches of the tree, swaying just out of reach of him--which was a good thing, as the branches would most likely tear him to bits if he got too near.

Still grinning, James followed, changing suddenly into a magnificent stag with dancing eyes. His antlers, still young, were nevertheless impressive, his coat shinning white, gold, and tawny brown under the lucid full moon light. Sighing, Peter followed suit. Unless one looked closely, they would not have seen the small gray rat that replaced him. His nose twitched, and his small form appeared vulnerable and small, even frightened, next to his enormous companions.

Knowing his role, however, the tiny rat-Peter darted about the ground towards the trunk of the willow. As soon as he neared, the branches began to sway, seeking him in the tall grass; rather bravely (he was, after all, still a Gryffindor), he tossed himself around them and scrambled up a troublesome root, pressing a knot in the trunk. The tree froze in action, and Sirius and James stepped intrepidly forward, towards a hole that had materialized. Thank goodness for Peter--without him, the Whomping Willow would be living up to its name. Without him, they would be lost.

Part Two

I can't believe I'm here again. Yes, the Dursleys treat me horribly. In fact, they give no evidence that I even exist half the time. I've been boxed around the ears perhaps one too many times for asking questions or turning the occasional teacher's wig blue, and I'll never forgive my Uncle Vernon for the horrible cupboard I spent my childhood in. But I can say one thing about Privet Drive--I never really expect my Godfather to come walking around the corner to Wisteria Walk, or to stroll down the way towards me with his barking laugh.

But twelve Grimmauld Place is entirely different. In this vast and gloomy house, with its many silent rooms and vast shadows, and of course my last memories of it including, to a great extent, my Godfather, I can't help by wallow in misery. I can't help but hear his laugh in the still echoes of the cluttered attic, his face in the many dusty and hidden photo albums. I can't help but expect to see him come striding confidently up the stairs from the kitchen, or see him rush up to yell at the screaming portrait of his foul, pureblood mother. Privately, I think I actually want to see his ghost in every corner, every footstep I hear, every elongated shadow coming near me. Sometimes I won't look up, just to hold onto that thin illusion. What I usually find out is probably the worst possible thing, and the best. It's never my Godfather coming near me--it's never Sirius; it's almost always Remus Lupin.

I'm being incredibly selfish. He's lost as much as I have, if not more. He's a poor, simple man, more shabby than I am in my cousin's old clothes and my untidy hair that badly needs a cut. He's a werewolf, meaning that the entire wizarding community treats him like an animal in a cage. I've experienced this, being a Parselmouth and cursed myself. I should have more compassion for him. It should have been me that walked up and talked to him, instead of shunning Lupin at his every approach during my first few days here. My parents, Sirius, and Peter, had been his closest friends, his family, his... well, in some part of his mind, a pack. And he's lost every one of them.

All except me.

It occurs to me that there is a good reason for my avoiding Remus Lupin during the day. At night he's the only person I even talk to--perhaps some piece of me is afraid of the dark, the scurries in the walls, the shadows and the cries... my cries, during nightmare. It's not as though I don't like the man--as a matter of fact, I'm rather fond of him. He's my favorite teacher of my favorite subject--Defense Against the Dark Arts--and he never hesitates to teach me, even when no longer employed at Hogwarts. Lupin is one of the few adults truly responsible for me, and that I trust. But talking to him about Sirius would be admitting to a fact that I want to stick a knife into and destroy, bury in the back of my brain and let suffocate there--that my Godfather is really dead. That I'm alone.

I still deal with a dilemma now that I've been facing since it happened, down in the bowels of the Department of Mysteries, in front of the veiled archway. I want to be with people when alone; I want to be alone when with people. But as it's a lot easier to be alone and find people than to be with people and try to slip away from them (especially with Hermione following me about), I've hidden myself in the attic. All the old albums, the keepsakes, the Hogwarts letters and awards, that Mrs. Black had hidden when she'd disowned Sirius, have been stuffed in a far corner and neatly packaged away, where they can't be seen. I remain, day by day, cleaning the attic of doxies and the occasional Red Cap (I don't want to know why they're up here, either), and finding these odd treasures of Sirius.

One day I'd managed to avoid Lupin completely, and had discovered an old trunk that needed cleaning, full of things Kreacher had saved from last Summer's drawing room purge. At the bottom were several photographs, and I spread them around myself on a circular, moth-eaten rug. A woman who looked suspiciously like Tonks stared up at me--most likely her mother, Andromeda, and photos of a little girl who must have been Nymphadora Tonks herself. Joining them--my heart flipped--were pictures of a young Sirius, handsome, his hair still short and dark, falling into his pale eyes, a rakish smile on his face.

Crack--the sound of a door slamming downstairs startled me and I kicked out, my foot colliding with the trunk and sent it toppling over on a side. A small silver music box fell out, it's lid coming open, filling the room with a soft, lilting music. Before I could react, my eyelids grew immensely heavy, and I slipped down to the rug, curled up, surrounded by black and white memories, in a deathly sleep.

I was stirred awake by a very anxious-looking Lupin, when the light outside had grown dim through the attic's single window. I looked up at him blearily, for once thankful that it had been him to find me and not someone else. His eyes flickered around me at the rug and I sensed the troubled glare in them; I'd worried him, and a surge of guilt shot through me. I must have looked rather troublesome, curled up with that creepy music winding down, surrounded by fading pictures, fast asleep. I bit my lip as he pulled me upwards unspeaking, leading me straight out of the attic faster than seemed appropriate. When we'd gotten down the steps he turned to face me.

"That music is cursed, Harry," he said abruptly, and I blinked. "It could kill you if you spent too much time around it. Haven't you got any sense, trying to spend all your time in this house alone, there are dangerous things here!"

I didn't answer, wishing to myself that he'd just leave me alone, and knowing very well he wouldn't. His demeanor was stern and not a little parenting, and I briefly wondered to myself if he was trying to replace Sirius, whether for himself or me. But he's always been protective--perhaps it was my parents he'd always tried to replace, and not a Godfather he had thought for so long to be a murderer. I shrugged my shoulders a bit, resisting a sudden urge to be nearer to him, to the simple warmth of another human being, and allowed my mind to wander back up to the drafty old attic, full of dead things.

Lupin heaved a deep sigh, unable to catch my eye. I didn't have the energy to escape him, or to hate him for holding me back a month ago, for stopping me destroying myself by going through the veil after Sirius. No one has ever described to me plainly what that ancient doorway is, but I sense it--it is the doorway of Death, behind which the souls of the departed lurk, whispering to each other and coaxing the living through to the coldness beyond like so many beckoning hands. I find myself many nights in front of that veil, reaching out, listening to those whispering voices just out of sight, just beyond my reach, and wishing I could walk through it. Oddly, it is always a very corporeal Lupin who holds me back in these dreams, in a strange and eternal replay of that night, always the one to restrain me and bring me back from the brink of my demise--and salvation.

And I cannot hate him.

His eyes searched me and pierced into my skin, into my mind, and I was reminded vividly of Snape's Legilimency, the ability to mind read, though Lupin's gaze was softer, gentler. He seemed to sense my thoughts, and began to pull me further away from the attic stair, down a hall and into a door I have entered quite often lately--his own. The grate was empty and cold, but a flick of his wand remedied that problem. He pushed me down onto a chair on the hearth, which creaked a bit in protest, then sat down himself, just across from me. I gathered by now that he was tired of my shunting behavior and felt a bit startled by his terseness; for the first time since being in the attic, I met his eyes, more out of surprise than anything.

Lupin leaned forward and supported his elbows on his knees, considering me for a moment. He did this a lot; still does, in fact. I couldn't help but blush slightly under his stare, but he held my gaze almost effortlessly.

"It's not wise to live death," he finally said, as abruptly as he'd said the last. I stared for a moment, blinking in slight confusion, eliciting a small smile from him. "Dumbledore said that to me fifteen years ago." He began rolling up his robe sleeves, then started on the threadbare cuffs beneath, revealing his forearm. When it turned over, I couldn't help but gasp. Vertical scars extended from the fleshy inner elbow down, near to his wrist, where they were met with horizontal lines. What freshness they once possessed had faded with the long passage of time and age, to a frightening white that sent shivers up and down my spine. Lupin noticed my reaction but did not rush to hide the marks.

"I had boxes of pictures, too. And not just black and white, impersonal pictures--mine were color, they were recent, they had me in them. I stared down and saw myself in the presence of people who were doomed to death and murder, to prison and exile, with myself, forever unchanging, right beside them. It is an eerie feeling--you know what I mean by it--to see a constant reminder of life that cannot be brought back." His face hardened a bit, looking coldly at the scars. "I tried to kill myself. I heard from Alastor Moody, that night, what had happened. I got to your parents' house after you'd been taken, in Godric's Hollow. I saw--well, you know what I saw, and I went after Sirius--" I flinched slightly at the sound of the name, and he continued with a sad expression. "But there was no sign of him. His smell was everywhere, I could have sought him out before he found Peter, could have stopped him and found out the truth, but I was... unfocused. A few days--I don't even know if it was a few days, even now--later, I picked up the Daily Prophet, and there he was, laughing up at me.

"I thought he was a murderer, worse off than dead, and that Peter was dead. In a few days they were all gone. The only one left... was you. And I couldn't get you. I couldn't see you, nothing, except know you were alive. And now I find myself back there again, back alone with you. We're the ones who were left behind."

I did not leave his gaze; instead, I delved into him, into eyes normally so controlled, so disconnected, so benign and detached. All a mask. I looked closer, and felt a sudden swell of envy. What was it like, to run without cessation, to run until one's lungs burned for oxygen and forced the body stricken to the ground with exhaustion, to fun without feeling? Even if it was just for one night. I'd sell my soul to give up my humanity until dawn, to feel him beside me, to run and run until all is behind me and there is no more pain. Lupin and I have something deep in common--we both have monsters that well up inside us, shine through our eyes, change our vision, our hearing, our voices, our touch and smell, our very lives; monsters who haunt our dreams, whisper in our ears, hide in the back of our minds and threaten to get out. The difference--Lupin can set his free once a month; I must suppress mine every moment of every day.

But Lupin has an uncanny talent for reading my mind, even when he hasn't locked me in the Drawing Room with him for Occlumency lessons. I know he enjoys them and I don't complain; just between us, I enjoy them more than he does. The continual stares and idiotic attempts to "talk" among the other occupants of Grimmauld Place have plagued me continually. Very seldom do Lupin and I have to "talk"--he knows what I'm thinking before I can ever open my mouth. And that's just what I gather he did; though, curiously (or it was at the time), he did not address my hidden wishes.

"I know what you're looking for up there, Harry," he said, still watching me with that close, penetrating stare. At these times, I can always see the wolf in him, emanating keen intelligence. It's as though he can smell my thoughts, and not just see them. I blinked, unable to maintain his gaze, and looked into the fire wordlessly. He continued. "And you won't find it. That night I brought you back here, you were afraid to come in the door, because as long as you remained outside you could continue to pretend Sirius was behind it. You hide in the attic in order to fool yourself into believing he is safely below, and we both know he's not. I've had to force myself not to do the same. That attic isn't good for you--you need people, Harry, you're becoming isolated and--" a flicker of deep concern crossed his eyes, and I knew the next words caused him pain, "--and strange."

Oh, he saw what I had been thinking and it frightened him to entertain it himself. Perhaps a bit too curious for my own good, I turned my eyes to him. He looked unnerved by my sudden bravado--I'd been avoiding his eye studiously for days--but hid his surprise with remarkable speed.

"Why d'you think I'm strange, Professor?" I asked, knowing full well what the answer was, but daring him to answer anyway.

A flicker--he almost scowled but stopped himself--and held my gaze almost regally. I've been reading his books on werewolves, preparing for N.E.W.T. Defense Against the Dark Arts, and understand all too well how he's come to think of me--how he always thought of me. It never made full sense before, why he has always been quite so protective, and so loyal. I was naïve to think it was out of simple devotion to long-dead school friends, or some figment of responsibility for the Order. It is the werewolf's inherent instinct to possess, or be apart of, a pack. Lupin was abandoned by his maker (the werewolf who bit him), was misunderstood by his parents, has been shunned by most wizarding society, is banned from having or adopting children, and is one of a dying breed; Aurors have systematically killed all Dark Creatures having dealings with Lord Voldemort, and a good many of them did. So whom did the wolf think were his pack?

Us. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs (my father), and, of course, my father's "mate"--his wife and my mother, Lily. I suspect Dad as the Alpha male, from what I've heard and seen of him, Mum as the Alpha female (she certainly had it in her), Lupin and Sirius as Betas (Sirius coming up close to my father, in a sort of second-in-command position, you could say), and Pettigrew the fast Omega. And me? I'm the only pup born of the back, the first, and from the looks of it, the last. I'm as much Lupin's son as I was my parents' and Sirius's. And Pettigrew's. It is not a particularly comforting thought, knowing how he betrayed my parents--and the pack. That need to run heedless through clawing trees into moonlit night intensified painfully as these thoughts came to me again, and I knew Lupin saw it.

Now he is the Alpha and I the Beta, he the teacher and I the student, he the parent and I the child. Yet again, he enjoys it. That's where our eye contact comes in--I'll never tell him, but my respect for him has become limitless, almost fearful awe after I read that book. And yes, I want to hate him for stopping my destroying myself--on more than one occasion now, let's just say--but I sense that hate comes in the package, part of having a mentor. Sirius was a parent, but never a mentor; he shrank from pointing out my faults because, so often, they were actually my father's faults: my pride, my temper, my anger, all James Potter's hubris along with much else. But Sirius's death and a week of Occlumency later had already rendered me a cold, quiet, and perhaps overly-passive creature, only rising to temper when Snape stopped in to insult Lupin and Sirius's memory--I believe a week of dish duty ensued after I threw a plate at the back of Snape's slimy head. He deserved it.

Lupin leaned forward in his chair and drew my gaze nearer, delving into me with frightening ease; I may be a reasonably good Occlumens by now, but apart from lessons I never fight him. Perhaps I haven't the energy to do it. His power to see into me runs deeper than simple Legilimency, and there are silent secrets in me I think I want him to know. Like the prophecy. I want to pour all that heaviness into him and share the weight, lean against him and take part of his burdens so that we are no longer alone under our misery. His eyes are golden brown in the firelight, flecked with silver as though flickers off moonlit waters; they're distinctly creepy, as I've heard be commented about my own eyes. We are a rather fair match for one another.

Finally he squinted, latching onto my observations, and the corners of his mouth twitched slightly, however sad his face was.

"You've been avoiding me. I've grown used to your avoiding the rest of the household, but it's not good for you to be alone so much. If you don't want to talk to Ron and Hermione, if you think they don't understand, you could at least come up here and keep me company." He made a sweeping motion around the room, which encompasses many of the books I've buried myself in, and the small, delapidated couch I've fallen asleep on perhaps one too many times. His mouth twitched again. "Afterall, I'm not going to bite you."

Now looking at him became unbearable; too late, I tried to turn my face away, and felt firm fingers on my chin bringing me back and, even stronger, a stern gaze upon me that burned its intensity. Unable to resist, I met it dutifully.

"But that's the problem, isn't it?" His voice was calm and without accusation... comforting, caressing, the grip his hand relaxing as his eyes held me there with that effortless ease that so infuriates me.

"I want to be what you are!" I burst out--my voice sounded oddly pleading, even to my own ears, and not a little choked. "Tell me what it's like--to be able to escape--to forget--" I was slightly out of breath, as though saying these things, after so long holding them in, had taken every drop of energy out of me. Lupin didn't flinch once at my words, though his eyes had become strained. He answered at first by reaching up, stroking my left cheek softly and sympathetically--so soft I almost couldn't feel it. It's his version of hushing me I've learned, like a wolf that nuzzles its whimpering pups when danger is nearby. Looking back, I remember the days of our professional relationship and nearly laugh. We pretended to hide so much from each other, when speaking the truth just a little earlier could have saved us both from this--us all, perhaps. Had he told me about their escapades and his werewolfry, might I have recognized my best friend's rat as Pettigrew when the sneakoscope went off again? Sent him packing, off to Azkaban, cleared my Godfather's name, saved the wizarding community and his life from Voldemort's return?

Always do our choices shape the world.

Perfect by nature

Icons of self-indulgence

Just what we all need--

More lies about a world that

Never was and never will be,

Have you no shame, don't you see me?

You know you've got everybody fooled...

"They think I'm their savior," I whispered when he was silent. I used "they" without flippancy--I honestly have never believed Lupin to see me in such light, and I'm glad for it. It may be because he took care of me as a very small child, or perhaps because he took the time to get to know me, but whatever the reason, that prophecy seems to not change his outlook on me in the slightest. But savior or not, the scar on my forehead forever marks me the property of another. The connection between myself and the Dark Lord, intimate and frightening, sets me apart permanently from my peers, my friends, and all the Order of the Phoenix... all, except Lupin. He knows what it is to be cursed, to be owned by a monster, to be chained to an endless destiny of rushing night and death, and too true it has proven. He's lost his entire pack--his family. I find it appropriate that I was the progeny of that pack. Whom else would have produced the child who was supposed to either murder or be murdered by the Dark Lord? The very death of all its members has been to him; the very fabric has been in defiance of his ideals.

Prongs--passionately rejecting the Dark Arts despite all his talent and power, and a blood traitor by heritage. Lily--compassionate, talented, the best witch in her year; Head Girl, and all in spite of being a muggle-born. Padfoot--born to a pureblood family stuffed to the gills with Death Eaters, yet in defiance of them all joined the Order and died a hero. Moony--a werewolf, victim of countless atrocities, alone and vulnerable, and still one of Dumbledore's greatest supporters to this day. And at last Wormtail--what can be said about him that's fair? The weak link, nearly a Squib, untalented, not powerful, a rebel against the Dark Lord until finally falling into Darkness. Excepting him, I can't help but be proud of them all, my family, the world of yesterday that I wish so fervently could have raised me.

"And--and everyone else thinks I'm crazy. They're right. I can't feel anything when I'm up in that attic," I continued to pour out. "And then, the rest of the time, I feel too much, and it drives me insane. Have you ever--ever felt like--like you've got something in your chest--like something's fighting to fly right out of you?"

Lupin continued to stroke my cheek, and I knew he understood exactly what I was talking about. He had edged further forward in his chair so as to bring us closer, his eyes burning into mine, welcoming me to continue.

I swallowed, trying to ignore that very feeling in my chest as it welled up. "You... you get to escape this. Even if it's just for one night, it's one night where you don't have to be--to be--"

"Human," he finished for me, in a voice so soft it was almost dangerous. I glimpsed for the first time a sudden longing in him, and though it enthralled me, I wished I hadn't seen it at all. "Being human is exactly the reason you could destroy Voldemort, Harry. It's being human that has saved your life--the reason he couldn't possess you, the reason Sirius came after you. He loved you because you loved him first, you meant everything to him simply for acknowledging him as a human being, for needing him. I can never measure up to that. But remember something, Harry--you are always free to sever the chains of fate that bind you. Simply because they are dead doesn't mean they don't love you still. Being dead doesn't mean you're gone; only being a monster and losing your humanity does that."

I tried to pull away from him, uncomfortable, but he wouldn't allow it, expecting an answer.

"I want to be dead too," I said meekly, squirming to avoid his gaze and failing miserably. "Why'd you stop me? You didn't have to--you could've... could've..."

"Let you go?" Lupin finished for me yet again. His eyes were flashing and frightening, a hand now firmly on my cheek to reinforce them as they burned themselves permanently into the back of my brain. "Understand, Harry, that the moment I grabbed onto you, I couldn't have let go had I wanted to--and I didn't. It may have been selfish; I know I've been selfish, about everything--I've lied to you, and told the truth only when it suited me to do so, or when I couldn't stand the look you'd give me out of sheer guilt. I've wallowed in self-pity and been angry with you if I thought you showed signs of doing the same. I'm a hypocrite, and still selfish, and I intend to hold onto you; I--I'm afraid... to be the one left behind... the last one left."

By now I was feeling oddly equalized with him, my heart aching. I won't deny that I wanted to hurt him, for keeping me helpless, laying claim to me, holding me to him--why, because I couldn't help but be fond of him? Connected to him in our shared grief? Because despite my fear of losing him I couldn't help but let myself love him, simply for letting me love him? Was he so desperate to rejoin his pack that he would willingly place himself in the deadliest position possible--the object of my affection? We would partake of poison and care for me? What fate did he think I could escape?

"What about Pettigrew?" I asked, meeting his eyes with perhaps too much bravery.

I had obviously said the right thing to wake him up. It was as though my skin had turned to fire; his hand snapped back from my face with the quickness that puts impulse to shame, a flash of primal anger renting his eyes, that I felt for certain wasn't aimed entirely at his treacherous old school friend. He looked as though he would quite like to hit me then, and I actually felt myself flinch.

Lupin stood up, towering over me, and leaned down so our faces nearly touched, and forcing me backwards noticeably. "Peter is worse than dead," he said. "He betrayed the closest trust, let us all think him something he wasn't, traded in all our lives for his own. All because--all because--"

Now it was my turn to finish for him.

"Because you and Sirius were so busy suspecting each other you didn't even see it." My voice was monotone, cold, without accusation. He was close I could hear his heart beating, and drowned in the comfort of that pulsing, savage rhythm.

"Because we were selfish!" he almost hissed. "Because we indulged ourselves in thinking we were the strongest, that ourselves alone could protect you and James and Lily! Because we wanted to suspect each other, we wanted the other out of the way!"

I couldn't resist asking, no matter how close our faces were, no matter how much he might have wanted to hit me, no matter how lascivious the thrum of his heart was, so frighteningly alive...

"W-why?"

Lupin flushed noticeably, and I knew immediately that I wouldn't learn the answer, not then. "Because... I suspected him because he had something to gain if James... died. I thought he might have tried to get that thing after James and Lily died, if Voldemort got them out of the way. And he... well, he suspected me because he and James had something I wanted more that life itself... that I still want, but it's too late now. And all the time Peter was standing there, having a good laugh at us. He was actually a perfect friend, you know, to fools like us; supportive, quiet, kept his tongue, knew what to say and do to get the right people on his side. And he destroyed us all."

He straightened apologetically and, after briefly gripping my knee, sat back down gently in his chair, eyes still on me. He's gained a few more gray hairs and I suspect myself as the reason for many of them. His face is young yet line, his eyes sparkling yet tired. We are blind and selfish walking paradoxes, he and I. Why did I never see that vivid pain and stalking wolf at thirteen? Was I so busy hating the man I believed had killed my parents that I failed to ask Lupin the right questions? Did I ever stop to think before then about how much this man had lost, that he'd lost what I'd lost? Selfish.

Just will-o'-the-wisp little decisions, off the cuff, "What kind of ice cream will I have today?" kinds of decisions. I'm Harry Potter, after all. Always catch the Snitch. First-class troublemaker. My best subjects are Care of Magical Creatures and Defense Against the Dark Arts. I'm actually better than Hermione Granger in the latter--I'm the only one who's ever beaten her in a subject. Creatures and Curses, Ghosts and Goblins, leave it to me to specialize in the dead, dark, and beastly. The perfect "Kill-Voldemort" machine, right? It's what I was born for. Perfect.

It's because of me he vanished at the first. Because of me he came back. That's fate--self-fulfilling. I brought him back with my blood, the same blood that nearly destroyed him, for one pf two purposes: to kill him, or be killed. And to think there are thousands of cars driving past Grimmauld Place every day. At any time, I could walk into the street, in the path of an oncoming bus. But I won't. The prophecy told me not to. Bus--crash--chains of fate severed by a faulty traffic signal.

Lupin studied me for another moment of silence. Silence between us is an amazing thing--charged with un-uttered words, flitting shadows and knowledge--we know one another. He sees himself in me, his pain in me, and I in him. We frighten one another.

"I always remember," Lupin started abruptly, and for a moment I was utterly bemused. He smiled; he knew he had my attention. "I don't just black out once the moon hits me; quite the contrary, in fact. It's as though I'm in a muggle car, driving, and suddenly someone else wants to take the wheel. I try not to let them, I'm afraid of losing control; every time, I fight it. I feel the claws ripping my skin--it's really just the fur growing, I've found out. And the wolf breaking my bones--it's normal, my bones have to break before the reform themselves and heal over again. Then the windshield, the whole view, changes. I can see through its eyes, feel the wind in my face. But the wolf--the wolf drives." He blinked, a look of shame crossing his features. "It's incredible, I won't lie to you." The longing lurched through me; I want to be there with him, make him stop regretting what he is, the things he desires. "When I'm there, I keep trying to remember, not to lose myself in it... I try to latch onto things, emotions, thoughts, that are important to me, as a human being... when I was young, it was my friends, your father and Sirius--especially when they ran with me, they were real. I became less the wolf and more myself with them. If I've nothing to hold onto the wolf takes over quicker. Thoughts... are insubstantial. My thinking becomes scattered, the concrete becomes abstract, smells are overpowering. Unless there is something real with me--them running at my side--I cannot hold onto my rationality, myself. Sometimes I don't want to, just like you.

"But the wolf doesn't just affect me; my thoughts and feelings affect it as well. I loved my friends--it learned to love them as well. When they joined me, I was complete, the wolf could long for nothing, it relaxed and allowed me control over my own mind, even after I'd changed. We merged, I suppose you could say; I learned how to differentiate between smells, to understand and know everything around me, to know what I wanted... which proved itself dangerous as I grew older. When I was young, the pack was enough." He watched me hard, pleading with me to understand.

"But... I grew up. At twenty... I began to become violent again in my transformations. Voldemort was taking over, I ran alone, or locked myself in basements where I couldn't be found. The wolf wasn't the only one who felt lonely, even with the pack. The need to Bite became overpowering--it was always there, after all--but it wasn't so much about tasting blood anymore. I wanted to make another werewolf, and that feeling hasn't gone away. I want a protégé, progeny, a pup, whatever you want to call it, more than I can bear..." He swept some graying hair out of his eyes distractedly, self-disgust heady on him like a musk.

"I was twenty-one years old when you were born. We were all there with your dad, waiting to find out if you were a boy or a girl. James held you first of course, when the Healer came in. I thought he was going to faint... you were so small, so quiet, and James was so bloody happy and scared, I almost felt sorry for him. He let Sirius hold after a while--he'd already been appointed your Godfather. They both... wanted... to teach you Quidditch." He smiled momentarily, swallowing something in his throat, before lapsing back into a self-hating scowl.

"Then I held you, and I knew from that moment on that I wanted you, more than I'd ever wanted anything in my life. I wanted you, my best friend's son--and not simply because I wanted my own son. I wanted you. It was so horrible, the thoughts I had. I babysat you sometimes." Lupin's eyes closed as though he was fighting back tears--or a scream. "I'd hold you late into the night, scared to death of that you'd never live to realize how much we all--how much I--loved you. I think you did, though. And there were always my thoughts to be frightened of; irrational, yes, but not entirely the wolf's."

He looked up at me, and I was startled by how little he reminded me of my distant and polite old school teacher. A remembrance of the day he wanted to, but didn't, grip my shoulder, flashed through my mind.

"Please--"he said, voice more hoarse than usual. "Don't hate me, Harry. You've every right to, you know--but please don't. I didn't want them to die. I never wanted you to be miserable. But I should have... should have tried harder... to..."

I sat, utterly bemused at this. He wasn't making his usual sense to me, keeping his thoughts ordered and speaking half what he means to say with his eyes alone. No, these eyes were shattered, fragmented, stream of consciousness, flitting desires and devoid of the normal aloofness that so often permeates them.

"Professor, I'm sorry, but... I don't understand. Why d'you think I should hate you? Tried to do what?" His gaze on me was unfathomable and full of regrets; I'd do anything to dive into his mind and unlock every precious and terrible memory he has trapped there, hidden away from me.

"I wanted to get custody over you, Harry--to take you away from your Aunt and Uncle, to raise you. I even went to Dumbledore with it, countless times--he never budged once--so I dropped it after about a year. I just gave up. I felt too guilty--like I'd wished your parents dead, just to get you. It was an insane idea of course... if Voldemort had his way, you'd have died too. It took me a long time to realize all that. I lived for twelve years like a dead man.

"Then, when I saw you again... it was like I'd come back to life. Being a werewolf is nothing if you have nobody, Harry, when you live your life in pain. Can you imagine the pain you'd inflict on yourself? It's what I did." He indicated the horrible scars again. "They're not the only ones I've got. There are worse ones--not from a blade. Scars from claws, and teeth. Being a werewolf doesn't stop you from feeling--just thinking."

I looked into his eyes; so sincere, so warm, and so unbearably human they were, those eyes. "And if I told you I just wanted to run with you? What would you say to that, Professor Lupin?" I asked evenly. The small wrinkles at the sides of his eyes crinkled as he allowed himself a smile.

"I'd be very tempted to bite you here and now. I'd be wondering what your blood tastes like, and wonder just how beautiful you would be as a werewolf. You're young, and bright. You would be beautiful. But as I told you, I've always been selfish when it comes to you."

God, how I wanted to hate him at that moment! How badly I wanted to howl my misery and feel biting wind on me, drown in the cold surface of the moon and roam free from everything, all at that instant. I still long for it, feel it drip into my veins and tug pleadingly at my stomach, at my soul. I would beg him to have what he has. I want to hurt myself. Hurt for all that my existence has taken from others. Then I want to run, then I want to die, fall into deep waters and never feel again. I want to drift into blackness until I fall into my Godfather's arms. I want to stay there for all eternity, holding onto him so that I never lose him again, so that he can never leave me behind and alone. Ever.

And, in that moment, aching for what I could never be, and the death Lupin would never let me have, I could not hate him. It was as though the world was slipping away and, incredibly, I did not want to leave it. I clung to him instead, for dear life and hanging on the edge of the very abyss I so hungered for, for in that moment of uncertainty, I felt helpless and ultimately vulnerable. What had Lupin said? Afraid to be the last one left. So, I'll stay for you, Professor Lupin. I won't be selfish. And I'll even tell you the truth.

I reached out and covered his hand with my own, commanding my eyes to convey to him a truth I haven't words for. Words I can't remember ever hearing, that I've never said. His eyes leapt with surprise and even a little sorrow.

"What it's like to run, Professor Lupin?" I asked quietly, not expecting him to answer. The ghost of a smile alighted on his features. I can play pretend, in my fairytale, that I am there with him; and he can pretend I'm a child still, content in his arms, and share with someone what it is to be a werewolf and not be ashamed.

I haven't the energy to hate you, Professor Lupin. But I think I have enough to love you.